Momentum
by Dr. Breifs Cat
Summary: Madame Masque, gun for hire and daughter of the wicked Count Nefaria, will never belong with the Golden Avenger. Tony Stark/Whitney Frost. Comic-verse


Disclaimers: Standard rules apply.

**Momentum**

His metal boots make a loud CLANG with every step they take. It is through some miracle of engineering or foresight or magic that the combination of his weight and the force doesn't send him crashing through the floor. In that infuriatingly charming way of his, he takes her by the waist and spins her down beside him, rather than letting her make the trek herself. He lets go and removes his helmet in one motion and just like that, he's Tony Stark again, all bright eyes and face-splitting grins. Before she can do a thing, he's taken her face between his hands and kissed her soundly with a loud MMMM-WAH! It only lasts a second and then he's moving again, working the controls to take this hydrofoil away from Midas, away from Crete and into their brighter future.

And then he's on her once more, kissing her slowly and seriously He's not trying to be funny or cute this time, he's doing something so real it is a little disturbing.

She can't feel his lips.

She can feel his tongue in her mouth and when she chases it back into his, she can explore the recesses of his own. But she cannot feel his lips and she imagines that what he feels is a cold, barely yielding metal construction. The pliableness of her mask is not entirely unlike the Iron Man armor. It can be soft as any cloth or harden on order. The brow furrows and the mouth slit can frown, giving the man behind the mask the barest hint of an expression. His arms and legs move, but there are no visible joints. The muscles of his limbs and abdomen look like they are carved right into the armor itself, but she has seen it lying unused in a briefcase and she knows that it isn't true.

The armor was designed to be like that, she's sure of that. Her mask wasn't designed to be kissed. Never once, in any of her widest fantasies or craziest dreams, did she ever suspect a man would try to kiss her, whether she was wearing it or not. But now one is and while it is a thrill because she had thought that part of her life was over, it is not something she is entirely sure she likes. It is disconcerting for her, to know his lips are there, applying the same pressure and moving the same way, she imagines, they would any other woman's mouth. His mustache should be tickling her and it's not. It must be cold and uncomfortable for him.

If that is true, though, he makes no indication. If anything, he is escalating, pouring more effort and eroticism into his ministrations. Her hands are scrambling for something to hold onto before she... she doesn't even know what, but all that is beneath her hands is smooth metal. He's brushing her hair away from her neck. It's a wig and he knows its a wig because he's seen her at least three times without it by now, but he is running it through his fingers like he would the hair of any other woman. Path to her neck clear, he shifts and their dance has changed again.

Her hands are in his hair, not sure if she wants to tug him away or hold him there, so she settles for being confusing. She's confused. She isn't sure she wants this. It is too far out of the realm of things she can allow for herself. But she shocks herself by being more concerned about him than herself. Being in the armor is bad for his heart, she's sure of that. So far, he's survived it. But now she's nervous about his delicate synthetic muscle's ability to pump blood during a different activity.

"Tony," she gasps--it is, amazingly enough, the first time she has gasped since this began--"Your heart--"

He looks up, nearly breathless. "Is in good hands."

Well.

That just killed the mood.

"That was terrible," Whitney snorts. "Do you just come up with these lines and save them to use on some unsuspecting woman when she gives you the right cue?"

He shrugs, looking a little put out. Her hand slides from his hair, down his neck to his metal-clad shoulders.

"I'm trying to take you seriously, but you make it so hard." In the microsecond after that phrase leaves her lips, Whitney realizes her slip. "Don't say it. DO NOT."

"It's still true," Tony says, "I've been on fire since I met you."

"You," Whitney corrects, seeing this truth for the first time, "have been involved with that Cord woman since before we met." Back when she thought he was an impostor, it would have been irrelevant. But the real Tony Stark as a real girlfriend waiting for him.

"I will leave her for you." His gaze is steely, his tone leaves no room for argument. He means it.

For just a second, Whitney thinks maybe. She can imagine herself as a beautiful, fashionable member of the Jet Set, the seductive trophy on the arm of a billionaire. It is the sort of life she grew up assuming she would have, the sort of life she wanted and thought she deserved. But the reality is that was three lifetimes ago, before she was a member of the Maggia, before she was the Big M itself, before she was Madame Masque. Before the scars. Beautiful isn't who she is anymore.

One of his hands his on her hip. It slides around behind her, giving her ass a squeeze before trailing down the back of her thigh, lifting her leg until he's hooked her knee over his hip. If he does have the erection he claims, he is certainly getting no relief grinding her into his metal briefs or showing any outward signs of the pain that must accompany clothing with zero give. It is actually a little disgusting of Tony, getting himself worked up like this while he wears an employee's clothing. He's looking downwards, caressing her thigh and waiting for an answer. The silence has already dragged on too long.

So, even though she doesn't mean it, Whitney says, "Yes."

Because she suddenly understands who Tony Stark is.

The Iron Man.

And even if Whitney Frost, the adopted daughter of wealthy financier Byron Frost, could have belonged on the arm of billionaire playboy Tony Stark in some distant, alternate lifetime, Madame Masque, gun for hire and daughter of the wicked Count Nefaria, will never belong with the Golden Avenger. He will see that, someday.

And she knows she doesn't want to be there when he does.

His smile is achingly beautiful. "I want... I want so much," he breathes. "Let me touch you. Let me make love to you. Now."

"Your heart," she says plaintively.

His mouth quirks, turning into a teasing grin. "Will never survive you holding out on me." He leans in and kisses her, coaxingly. He's got one hand playing with the inside of her knee--the one curled around his hip. His other hand is seemingly everywhere.

She's going to give in and she knows she's going to give in because it has been a long, long time since anyone made her feel like this and she doubts anyone ever will again. She's still afraid for him, so it will be slow and careful. She tries to tell herself that she isn't weak-willed for wanting him.

Behind the mask, she decides it is just a role she is playing. Whitney doesn't want Tony to know that she plans on leaving him the second his back is turned, so she needs to avoid suspicious behavior. If she refused him, he wouldn't understand. He would have to question, have to realize they are who they are and there is no refuting it. Once he gives it a little more thought, he'll have the sense to want to break it off.

Whitney is rather miserably in love with this man.

He would only hurt her in the end. It will be better this way.


End file.
